


Again

by MotelsandDiners



Category: you - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Infatuation, Inner Dialogue, Not Romance, Obsessive Behavior, POV Joe, Stalking, Texting, Unrealistic Expectations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-10 09:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17423177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotelsandDiners/pseuds/MotelsandDiners
Summary: Life has a strange way of keeping score, of dolling out punishment, of rewarding people. He's been through it. All of it. And he's just about ready to throw in the towel when the world is uncharacteristically kismet in his favor. He's not ready, not quite. But he's going to jump in headfirst anyway because he still believes, at the end of the day, in love at first sight.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Right. So, watched the series 'You' on Netflix and fucking loved it. Loved how they portrayed Joe, how they spun the story and made me root for the sociopath near the end of the show. I had no idea how well they were doing with painting Joe in a flattering light until I had to consciously remind myself that he was the bad guy and he should get caught, brought to justice. Jesus. So, by the end of the series I was inspired, my mind going: Ok, but what about the next girl he falls in love with? And boom. Something small. Anyway, I'm gonna leave now.

It happens again. Catches him off-guard- and it isn’t you, initially, that hooks his attention.

It’s your barbaric, modernistic best friend that treats all the flat surfaces in his bookstore like a drink coaster. She’s loud. And opinionated, which in and of itself isn’t wrong, it’s the volume she tacks on to all of her thoughts that makes him want to clock her over the back of the head with a hardback cover of John Steinbeck.

He holds his distance, wraps his hands tighter around the metaphorical leash he’s placed on himself, it becomes a noose the longer he listens to you debate with your friend about the moral soundness of Raskolnikov. You sound so…sage-like, patient, with an underlying tone of profound disappointment that is lost on your 2D best friend.

He trails after, ghosting from stack to stack, zig-zagging his eyes along your back, catching details he’s filing away for use later. He pauses, once, when your friend lays a book on top of another row of books, non-chalant, oozing crass superiority. He’d like to tip a bookshelf over on her. He’d like to. But he doesn’t want to hurt any books, they don’t deserve that.

He watches you pick up that neglected book and return it to its proper place, a disapproving tug to your lips and a sharp glare thrown at your friend’s back as she continues defending her viewpoint. It’s shit. Her viewpoint. And he may be just the least bit biased.

_You’re not high-class, are you? Not the way you trail after your arrogant friend and clean up her messes. That protective shine to your eye as you re-home books, and look around for employees, prepared already to offer genuine apologies- You apologize for her all the time, don’t you?_

He wouldn’t go so far as to say he likes you. It’s more, rose-tinted respect. You’re not exactly his type. Combat boots that have seen some things, skinny jeans with holes that aren’t aesthetic but worn in. The leather jacket you wear is definitely too hot for the bookstore, but you don’t take it off, probably because the tank top you’re wearing underneath is a little too tight, a little too _little._

And your hands.

He gazes down at them as the two of you pass him at the end of a bookshelf, oblivious to his presence. Your hands, your knuckles are bruised, scabbed over. He doesn’t know what to think of that. He’s neutral to it at the moment, peering over his shoulder, eager for another look. Instead, he’s treated to a shock.

Your friend, grimacing at you sourly, as if you’ve spit in her face, grabs a hefty book from a stand and then tosses it at your feet, aiming, no doubt, to crush your toes. The book hits the hardwood floor with a loud thud that turns more than a few heads, and he’s bristling where he is, indignant for you, for the treatment of the book, and the disturbance of the store ambiance.

She says something, something scathing and personal because her voice has lowered and she’s gotten closer, pokes you in the chest- _who the hell does that?_ -and then marches out of the store with a ridiculous sassy toss of her hair, flouncing.

_Fuck. He’s never been more revolted by anther person so strongly._

He makes a decision and starts towards you, hands hanging on the verge of tucking into his apron. He’s politely patient as you stoop down and pick up that book, assessing it tenderly, opening it, frowning sadly as the heft of pages slide away from the spine.

“You alright?” He asks you softly and you whip around to look at him, surprised by his sudden phantom appearance.

You’re flustered and not for the reason he thinks.

You shake your head, “To hell with me,” You say, and lift the book in implication. “Look, I’ll buy this, I don’t care about the price. She’s got a temper-” you shake your head again, and sigh. “Almost wish she would’ve tried taking a swing at me.”

_Oh wow. You are…damaged-? No, not damaged. Complex. There’re layers to you, aren’t there? The tender care for the books, but you let her walk over you like a doormat. Your healing knuckles imply you’re no stranger to violence, and you said ‘tried’. You wouldn’t have let her you, but you would’ve preferred it over her man-handling this collection of C.S. Lewis._

He smiles, somewhere between humor and relief, “Well, I’m glad she didn’t,” he holds his hands out for the book, adores the guilt that makes you hesitate to relinquish it, “This is easily reparable. No need to buy.” He reassures you.

You smile shakily, tuck your hands into your jacket pockets, suddenly feeling self-conscious. He’s disarmingly attractive, very forgiving. He carefully puts the book back on the stand, opening it to the perfect middle and then turns back to you.

“I’m Joe. Joe Goldberg.” He says, lips widened just to get to the bare minimum of ‘a smile’.

You measure something, weigh pros and cons, he can see it behind your eyes, the thought and contemplation, the curiosity that fights back against self-preserving instincts. There’s baggage, he can see it so clearly, like you’ve got it strapped to your back…or coloring your knuckles varying shades of yellow and purple.

But there’s something else. A gleam of daring in your eyes, a little recklessness. A want for adventure.

Your lips quirk the smallest bit, and you cock your head- _how cute, he thinks_ -and say, “Tossy.”

His eyebrows jolt, and then curl. “I’m sorry?” Is the best he can come up with.

You grin with wry humor, light dancing in your eyes like reflections of skittish stars. “Everyone calls me Tossy.”

He slides his hands into his apron, properly inquisitive, and amused. “A nickname?”

You hum in affirmation, wait for the inevitable question of-

“What’s your real name?” He’s taken bait, and never been so pleased to become hooked, even with the rude sting of metal tearing tender flesh. He’d just gotten out of a relationship a year ago, hit rock bottom, went through a fucking wood-chipper. He’s felt hollow and overused, bleached, and sucked dry like he’s been left out in the sun for too long, where the warmth has crept from comfort straight to punishment.

But you…you’re refreshing and new, alluring, wrapped in mystery in such a way that it doesn’t cause him to recoil, but linger. He’d like to know you. He will. There’s something, a weight in your eyes, a minute shift in color that speaks of unimaginable emotional depth- you’ve been through some shit too. You’ll be shy and flighty, you’ll be a chore, he can tell. But-

“Something you’ve gotta earn, Joe.”

Oh, there’s that spark. A spark that makes him realize those bruises on your knuckles are very well-founded, not a cry for help or a detail for scrutiny. No, it’s a qualifier. You’re a fighter, in more ways than one, and you won’t hesitate to bloody your knuckles on him. But that baggage, that baggage you carry tells him you won’t want to. And he’s going to do his best to make sure you never have to raise your fist for anything.

He smiles, curbing his excitement, “How do you suggest I do that?”

You shrug nonchalantly, cast your cheeky gaze round the stacks and say, “Well, moving some of your Fitzgerald into the discount section is definitely a good starting place.”

He laughs softly, nods with it, chest vibrating. “Noted. I just might, if it means you’ll be back.”

You tip your chin, “I won’t be back for a ‘might’, Joe. Only a definite yes will have me walking back in that door.” You point at the door- timing cosmic -as someone walks in and jingles the bells.

_Wow. Just wow. I’ve gotten nothing out of you. In fact, I’m going to have to give something up, not knowing if the sacrifice will be rewarded. But you…you’re worth it._

“Alright,” He extends his hand for you to shake, grinning, unrestrained. “You’ve got yourself a deal, _Tossy_.”

You grasp his hand, ignoring the throb of pain in your knuckles, and nod tartly. “Then I will see you at a later date, Joe. Let’s see if you’re a man of your word,”

_Oh, Tossy. You’ll learn. My word is my bond, and you have my word-_

The bells jingle as you open the door and slide through, out, into the brazen sunlight of late fall-

- _That I will give you everything._

-turning just in time to lock eyes with him through the front window, not knowing how that small, seemingly pointless gesture, has sealed your fate.

But you’ll learn.

“Wow,” he murmurs after you disappear from his line of sight. “You…”

_You could be the one._

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ecP9ZJg9lEk>


	2. And Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Click. Lament. Pout. Refresh. Repeat. It's been a long week, slow. Slower than an over-worked mom in a grocery store: her first and only chance in a week to get away from the screaming children. He's close to screaming, feeling like he's been duped. Maybe he read it wrong? Or maybe he just needs to be patient. His patience is rewarded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Typical that the stories I label as finished are always banging away at the door of my writing room, while all my unfinished works are black out drunk on a bathroom floor, feeling neglected. Typical.

He doesn’t see you for a week. And not for lack of trying. There’s no _you_ anywhere, not on social media at all. Of course, it’s not like he could actually get anywhere with the nickname you gave him, and he never did catch the name of the friend you were with.

But. He did see the paper coffee cup she carried with her through the entire store- he doesn’t think she ever drank from it. The logo was familiar to him, and he made a conscience choice to visit everyday before coming in to open the store on the off-chance that you’d stop there for coffee.

He’s had no luck: no you or that friend that masquerades as an important gear within the broken machine of society. He feels cheated. Sitting in a corner table, bill on his cap pulled low, pretending to text someone, avoiding drinking this sub-par coffee that belongs in a trashcan, not a cutely designed paper-cup that borders on the edge of juvenile but barely makes up for it by being self-aware and acknowledging the art itself is shit.

When sunlight glares the side of his face, he leaves, like he always does, feeling lower to the ground, more desperate for the balm of elevation your short interaction granted him. He’s been reading Fitzgerald since that day, poring over it, trying to glean from Scott’s works what it is you like. Joe’s been trying to find you wherever he can, he’s close to aimlessly wandering, hoping fate will deliver you to him again.

_Jesus. It should be easier to find someone in this day and age. What did people do without phones?_

He can’t just ask around.

_Tossy. Why Tossy? What does it mean?_

When he opens the shop today, he sits at the front counter, holding vigil. While reading a book. A book that is consciously not Fitzgerald. He’s taken your advice, though. Put a few Fitzgerald works on the discount shelf, labeled one as ‘special order’ so no one will take it. He hopes he guessed right. He hopes you come in.

Every time the door opens his eyes shoot up over the edge of the pages, expression pitifully hopeful, then pitifully dejected as probability plays against him.

_Fuck, I thought I learned patience with Beck, but this…_

The bell chimes, and he looks up. An emo in the middle of a fashion transition shuffles across the threshold, no doubt in search of Poe. What else?

_This is hell._

His coffee cup has gone cold, stone cold. And it’s brimming full. But he won’t toss it. It’s his only clue, his only tie, other than Fitzgerald, to you.

_Tossy…what? Because you’ve got me tossing and turning at night, thinking of you? Wondering where you are? Who you are? Why you haven’t showed back up? Why haven’t you?_

Joe stares accusingly at the discount shelf, his olive branch and his burning bridge all at once. Is he so ready to burn? This early?

He sighs, sets his book into a cubby-hole under the register, and climbs the staircase to the loft, untying his apron as he goes.

_Maybe you’re like Beck, with your extravagant friends, and weak excuses to duck out of social gatherings? God, I hope you aren’t like her. But the bruises. The healing scabs on your knuckles. Not like Beck. Very Not-Like-Beck._

The door chimes, closes, the rubber lining on the underside of the door scratching at the rug gratingly. It chimes again, not even a breath later, and a voice grumbles irritably.

“Can’t believe you dragged me here,” It’s rough, a deep bass, but the tone used implies that the male doesn’t actually protest too much.

Joe can’t stand it. How males are hard-wired by society to hate books and libraries because it isn’t masculine. And those that do love it have to fit a very specific bracketed stereotype.

“Hey, look. They have Fitzgerald-” Joe’s ears prick up, strain to hear, even though he continues to climb the stairs. “-on the discount shelf, Tossy- Where are you going, Toss?”

_Do I dare to hope? I mean, what are the real, actual chances that someone else is named Tossy? Admittedly, chances are good, but…the universe is rarely ever so sloppy._

“I must say,”

The voice at the bottom of the stairs has him freezing mid-step, counting his blessings, and thanking whatever gods are out there in the vast expanse of space for this opportunity.

“I’m surprised to find you are as good as your word, Joe.”

Hand falling on the railing, knuckles going bone white, he cocks his head, looking over his shoulder, down those stairs to see you at the bottom looking up at him, pleasantly happy. And you are happy. Why? Can it be because of the books?

He smiles, turns on the staircase, apron loose, straps flailing, hanging like wet noodles. “And you. You are a woman of your word. You came back.” He descends as he talks, noting almost robotically that the number of his words matches how many stairs he needs to traverse to reach you.

Hands in your pockets- _That leather jacket again. Sentimental value attached to it, then? –_ “Mm. I meant to come back sooner, but life has a funny way of getting in the way _of itself_.”

He tilts his head, a grin worming its way across his mouth. “I like that,” he remarks, unthinking. But sails on, “I figured I’d see you again.” _BULLSHIT. I thought you were lost to me like the image of a sun-bleached polaroid._

Your eyebrows pop up. “Oh?”

He reaches around himself to tie the strings of his apron, slipping past you as he does, an elbow brushing across your stomach so innocently the idea of saying sorry- or needing an apology for it -would create needless awkward eye contact and a special kind of tension of trying to find something else to say to cover up for it.

“Yeah, there’s a very special copy of _This Side of Paradise_ on the discount shelf, and I happen to know you want it.” Yeah, he may have payed more attention to you than he was willing to admit to himself a week ago. Now, now all bets are off.

He picks it up off the shelf, simple string tied round the book, faded leather-bound, gold lettering burned into the face and spine of the book. A safety pin is looped through a snatch of string, and stabbed through a simple slice of yellow note-pad paper that reads:

**Special order for Tossy.**

Full price the book costs 65 dollars. For you it’ll cost a whopping 12.95.

“Special order?” You question, fighting a smile as you take the book from him. You glance at his long slender hands, graced with big veins that push abrasively against his skin. You can see one pulse with his heartbeat.

He shrugs, expression pliant. “Well, the conditions are very special. And you did more or less order me-”

“Excuse me?” You play being aghast, expression wounded, incredulous.

Joe opens his mouth to retort. He’s got pages of banter prepared. Among other things. But the person you dragged with you this time conveniently interrupts. Because why the hell not.

“Hey, Toss. Jules Vern over there, mint condition, pages crisp-” Vibrant blue eyes slide up to lock with Joe- no, not blue, it’s more like-

_The very definition of the word blue. It’s a fucking color palette of blue underneath midnight lashes that women would literally kill one another for. Like palm branches. Tall. Because of course the first male you bring into my store is eye-level with me, and is actually allowed to stand close enough to catch a whiff of your perfume without it being questionable. Oh, Tossy. Who is this guy?_

“Hey, sorry. I’m- that was rude of me. Alistair Holbrook, pleasure to meet you.” A strong hand is extended to him, a ring on his index finger, non-descript, glints under the fluorescents. An easy smile, perfect teeth, whitened to proportions of god like cleanliness.

_He’s genuine. Nice. But also protective, given how close he’s gotten to you, the arm he has to curve around you to shake my hand. There’s no jealously, though. Just simple caution. And that name- Fuck. This. Guy. Who names their kid Alistair?_

He smiles politely, warmly, but business-like. “Joe. Joe Goldberg.”

He isn’t subjected to a ridiculous, threatening hand squeeze and he’s thankful for that. If he can avoid painful clichés, he’d like to.

“This is a cozy store you have. Feels homey.” Again, he’s genuine. There’s no posturing or subtle jabbing, but even so, Joe would rather him stop talking. Stop talking, leave, wander into traffic. Never wander back out.

“Thank you, I’m glad to hear that,” He’s humble about it, segues smoothly, because now that he has you here he needs to make up for lost time. “Although, I think I may have made it feel a little too homey. People leave their drinks sitting around everywhere. Like, uh, that woman you were in here with- I swear I saw you pick up her cup a dozen times before she left.” He’s so conversational you don’t think twice.

You need no prompting, anything to vent about her. “Oh, yeah. Silver. She’s a real treat,” You roll your eyes so hard your sockets ache, and Alistair’s mouth twists into a sour frown.

_Oh? Silver isn’t too popular, I see. Not that I’m surprised. She seems bout as docile as a starved bear and pleasant as a landfill._

Alistair nods, offers one word of critique and then presses his lips flatly, still nodding. “Bitch.”

He shudders, shakes his shoulders, and wipes down the lapels of his own leather jacket. “Scuse me. Speaking that harpy’s name has tainted the air.” He crosses himself- ironic because he’s atheist -nods at Joe, and slides away, towards Jules Vern.

Joe could laugh. You’ve both given him so much information, without knowing. And his olive branch has extended, been taken. It’s not a burning bridge.

“Seems like Silver doesn’t have a large fanbase,” he remarks, blasé, slightly wry, and you chuff, working a tight nod.

“You have no idea. The word _entitled_ is her entire personality.” Someone slips passed you, brushing your shoulder and you realize you’ve been standing in the middle of the store, obstructing customers. Oops. You cock your head as you step towards the opposite side of the store, _walk with me?_ And get out of everyone’s way.

_Considerate. And you want to talk to me, but you don’t want to openly say it. And before you did you looked around, gauged how busy we were, to see if it would be acceptable to steal me away. You didn’t even glance at your friend who’s been staring at us from the less than helpful how tos section for a good thirty seconds. Does he even need to know how to restore furniture? Because I doubt it judging from his impeccable hands. Never done a day’s hard labor in his life._

He follows, like moth to flame, readily, focus pinned. “How’d you come to be friends with walking White-Class-Privilege?”

“Silver?” You adjust _This Side of Paradise_ into the crook of your elbow and resist the urge to pick up a discarded book sitting on an empty end table. That is not where the book goes. Not remotely.

“No,” Joe says, a smirk curling his lips, and throws a thumb over his shoulder, “Alistair, obviously. ‘How to declutter your life’ goes nowhere near ‘Healthy Living’,”

You look over your shoulder to see your friend skimming book summaries to shove them back into whatever space he can find, sometimes in a completely different shelf. “Goddamit.” You blurt and shake your head. “I swear unless I’m right on his heels…He humors me by going to bookstores, but he’d rather be anywhere else.”

You turn sideways so a girl with her nose buried in a Stephen King novel can get down an aisle.

Joe quirks an eyebrow. That isn’t even one of theirs. Why the hell did she bring her own book to a store?

You shrug, stop as a forest green spine with silver lettering catches your eye. “He tries, which I appreciate, but at the end of the day we are who we are.”

_So astute. You’re running a race, but you aren’t wearing blinders. You can see everything going on around you, see the finish line, the stands, the spectators, the other competitors, can see how far you’ve come. And it doesn’t distract you, none of it. You offer nuggets of wisdom that still sound vaguely like apologies for the people around you. When we’re together, you’ll never have to make apologies for me, I promise that, Tossy._

He leans into a bookcase, watches your hands, so careful, open the front cover of a book and he’s hit by a wave of want. A want to know you, to know little things about you: What’s your favorite color? What do you do to relax? Who’s your favorite author? What do you do for a living?

“So, who are you?” He murmurs, tone honeyed with curiosity like one who stumbles upon a terrified animal. Your hands stall, he notices, notices the color in your eyes harden. You’re putting your guard up. Damn. “Biker girl with a soft side?” he jokes, pulling a tiny smile from you as you return the book to the shelf.

“It’s the leather jacket, isn’t it?” You retort lightly, tugging at the hem emphatically.

_Drawing attention away from your face. Where your emotions are on display despite your attempts to quell them. Fine, I’ll look, laugh, shrug. I’ll let it go, until you trust me. You can trust me, Tossy. I’ll show you._

“Not more than it is the kick-your-ass combat boots.” He grins easily. _See, took even more attention away. I’m not digging, Tossy. I don’t want to have to dig. I want you to tell me._

You snort, toss your head, and continue your perusal, keeping conversation light, meaningless. He’s charming, funny, polite. Not suggestive of anything, he doesn’t flirt covertly. You aren’t sure he’s actually flirting with you at all.

You pick up two more books on your way around the store, with Joe’s input and expert opinion. He’s promised they’re good reads. “And if they aren’t?” You ask him, a smile begging to stretch your lips.

He’s aware of how far he stands behind the check-out counter, maintains that distance, doesn’t lean in. No, you need space. He can tell that much. He places a hand over his heart, “Then you may come back in and kick my ass with those boots.”

You laugh openly, making a couple look up from their book searching. You shake your head, “I save the ass-kicking for more punishable offenses like: leaving drinks on books, or misquoting Shakespeare.”

He breathes a comedic sigh of relief, and mimes wiping his brow of sweat. “So, I’m safe then.” _I am. I am safe, Tossy. You don’t need to hide from me._

Your lips quirk wryly, “We’ll see, won’t we?”

He blinks, expression going slack in wonder. And then you wander off into another wing of the shop to find Alistair and take mercy on him. Joe watches you go, stunned.

_Responsive, but cautious. I’ve made you curious, too, haven’t I? But not so curious as to give up the bearings. Still no real name, nothing deep about you, aside from your literary taste, and your uncanny perception about people. But you’ll be back in, won’t you? Will you even buy a book next time?_

You and Alistair head for the door, you wave, and Joe smiles at you, holds up a hand- Alistair turns to wave as well. Joe holds his welcoming expression, holds it, _hoooolds_ it until the bell jingles, and then he watches you. Watches your sun-kissed profile float along the other side of his window, he can feel his smile go a little star-struck, a little dopey in nature but not intensity. You look. Steal another glance, and he’s never felt so vindicated.

_You’ll have to. You’ll have to buy a book, otherwise you’ll be admitting something. Something you’ve spent this entire visit denying behind the trailing of your fingertips along book spines and thieving little looks at the book in your arms. A book that steadily made its way from the crook of your elbow to your chest, not out of discomfort because you’d left your other arm free…you were protective over it, Tossy._

_You’re attracted to me, aren’t you?_

Joe halts in his dazed shuffle around the shop as someone rings the check-out bell. He shakes his hands out, clears his throat, and makes his way back, putting on a falsely kind smile. One that says, ‘I’m in retail Hell but I’ve got bills to pay, so please inconvenience me with your purchase’.

_It’s alright, Tossy. You don’t need to hide from me._

He watches the door all day, replaying that fleeting moment as you looked over your shoulder- not paying attention to the jabbering of Alistair, unconcerned with his thoughts -and caught his gaze so easily it was almost magnetic in nature. The sun cascading over your hair, warming the leather of your jacket until it reminded him of black ink, and lips slightly parted in surprise, just on the cusp of a smile based on the twinkle in your eyes…

_You don’t need to hide. I see you._

“Have a nice day, sir.”

The bell jingles, pulling his attention, and tightening the rope around his feet as he’s dragged through a riptide. This is surely the seventh circle of Hell: waiting for you to come back to him. So that he can show you how safe you are with him, how patient and forgiving he is. He won’t judge you for whatever insecurities are keeping you at arm’s length from him. He can see that you’ve been hurt, and he needs you to know that he’ll _never_ hurt you.

_I see you, Tossy. I see you. Do you see me?_

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DbPsIWto5PY>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make no promises. None. Love you guys. Once again: not romanticizing Joe.


	3. And Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old habits are hard to break. Though, that's not to say he's trying to break them, because he isn't. His old habits keep him safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goddamnit. I'm sorry. I have other things I need to work on. I know this.

_Your friends, let me be frank, are kind of…awful. Not awful arrogantly, more like ignorantly awful. They’re very bland. Silver, Silver is an A-class bitch with her head so far up her ass she can barely see past the backs of her own teeth. It’s all me-me-me, life is so hard, I’ve been cut an impossible deal. But she posts so many selfies, layered and filtered, and photoshopped…she plays at being insecure because it will get her more attention. She’s not insecure. She’s obsessed with herself. She never posts pictures of food she eats on Instagram, because she doesn’t eat, but she’s so specific about her appearance she’s careful not to do irreparable damage. She takes just enough care of herself. And Alistair…_

_Admittedly, he’s not terrible. Just kind of boring, doesn’t post a lot. Probably because he’s actually out doing something with his life. Kudos to him. Skyline pictures, and sunrises through a murky window pane. Gritty alleys of New York, and claustrophobic captures of a packed subway, blurred. He’s a photographer, worth his salt too. And he’s also depressed. Deeply. But- Hello._

_A picture of you. Taken in a retrospective moment, a comfortable environment if the blurred colors in the background are anything to go on. A small kitchenette table offers a place for the journal you have opened, hand limp upon it, pen nearly slipping out of your uninterested fingers. Your hair is up, in the definition of a messy bun, a loose cotton t-shirt covers you, the seams fraying, the collar stretched from a million washes…It hangs off one shoulder, a bare snatch of skin, glowing under the beams of the rising sun through the window Alistair takes a thousand pictures._

_Yeah, he’s worth his salt as a photographer, recognizes the fleeting beauties of seconds, and how you have to jump upon them without hesitation. Earrings twinkle in your lobes, small studs of simplistic charm. You are the focus of this picture, without a doubt, but I can’t help but theorize…do you live with Alistair? It’s his apartment that you’re in, based solely on how many pictures he’s taken of the place._

_I also can’t help but notice how vague the location is. Never says anything in implication of it being his home. No #cozyvibes of the slightly askew picture taken a week ago of the living room taken just over the rim of a porcelain mug still steaming with black coffee. He doesn’t take ownership of the location, no pride, other than the attention he pays in photographing it. And the pictures of the sunrises? The light creates such a strong contrast on the buildings and the environment that I can’t glean any kind of information from it. He’s careful. Deliberate. Secretive about his life, about you. He doesn’t tag you in the pictures, and the ones that you take the focus in…never head-on, always profile, or slightly blurry, or taken from the back._

_Learning about you is becoming impossible. But anything worth the time will take a little effort, and I’m willing to put in the work for you, Tossy. More than willing._

_I wonder, as I sit here, drinking motor oil for coffee in that shop you went to nearly two weeks ago with Silver, have you tried learning anything about me? Do I keep you up at night? And have you opened that special copy of This Side of Paradise, where I wrote my number? Symbolically next to the title. Have you put it into your cellphone, do you contemplate? Set aside time to think about me, what I’m doing, where I’m going, wonder if you should dive in? You should. I can’t tell you-_

_Holy. Shit._

_There you are. You’re here. So very different from everyone else in this café, you’re awake, shaken the early morning grog out of your bones. You’re in no need for a pick me up, your steps are brisk and strong but not loud, and your eyes sweep the store with an aloofness that tells me you are familiar with this place. There’s a spark of recognition in the barista’s eyes as you step up to the counter, a pale amiability that makes it acceptable to ask how you are- not in customer service voice._

_He calls you Tossy, and I feel just a little better about the fact that you won’t give me your name. You won’t give anyone your name. But why? Who are you?_

_You order a tea, adjust your mustard yellow beanie over your red ears and take another cursory glance over the store, I duck, and appear a little more focused on my laptop, like I’m late for a deadline and am feeling the mortality of my job. I’ve got my hood over the ballcap I’m wearing, and it raises no flags: the wind is brutal today. You really should be wearing a scarf, or a thicker jacket._

_You could get sick. I would take care of you, you know? Bring you soup in bed, keep you warm, massage the aches out of your muscles…You sneeze into the crook of your elbow. I feel oddly justified, mutter I told you so under my breath, and hunch towards my laptop, raising the appearance of my desperation._

_You sit on the opposite side of the café, at a table by the window, and set down the satchel bag on your shoulder on the other chair. A very passive aggressive way of warding off possible prospects, which makes me feel the least bit smug. You don’t want anyone to talk to you, but you’ve made effort to talk to me. Implied that you’d be back to the store. It isn’t that you’re shunning possible prospects, it’s that you’re shunning prospects that **aren’t me.** _

_You pull out your cellphone. An old model. Archaic by societies standards, and I silence my own cellphone in my hoodie pocket. I’ve learned from past ‘almost mistakes’._

_You bite your lip, anxious, and your hands stall on your phone as you think about something. And then they start typing…and keep typing. Well, got a lot on your mind, Tossy? I’m a good listener, you can tell me anything- no backspacing. Whatever it is you’re saying, it’s exactly what you want to say, no second guessing. Either you’re a quick thinker, or you’ve been ruminating on this. On this moment._

_With a ragged exhale of breath you set your phone down, stare at it. And then flip it over, the motion is all insecure-anxiety, and I hope you know you don’t ever need to feel that way around me._

_My phone vibrates against my stomach and I could just about burst. You were texting me. I watch you inhale another breath, fiddle with the hem of your jacket, adjust the sleeves, I watch you drown in distress and I can’t do anything about it. I can’t just start texting you immediately, that’s suspicious and while it is true that you haven’t noticed me, I won’t take a chance like that._

_I wait until the barista calls your ‘name’ and then I pull my phone from my hoodie, blood singing. An unknown number, a waiting message. The moment of truth._

_I open my messages, begin to read._

“ **Now you've a clean start... you've brushed three or four ornaments down, and in a fit of pique knocked off the rest of them. The thing now is to collect some new ones, and the farther you look ahead in the collecting, the better, but remember, do the next thing.”**

**So, I’ve knocked a few ornaments down, felt unmoved by their untimely demise- and I realized something: Collecting really isn’t my thing. I’m not looking ahead to collect more ornaments that I’ll abandon, hanging somewhere unworthy, to dust off in a hurry- inevitably to be choked by the dust on them. I don’t want to collect. But I do want to do the next thing. Which is ask if you’re free tomorrow night?**

**-Tossy.**

_Good God. Do you want me to marry you? Because I’ll get down on one knee right now. You’ve trusted that I know This Side of Paradise so well that you don’t bother elaborating on the meaning thereof, you trust that I’ll understand, and I do. And you’ve run with Fitzgerald’s narration, continued the metaphor seamlessly. You want to do the next thing, the next thing being ask me on a date. Move on. You’re moving on. From something, someone, perhaps?_

_A clean start. Am I your clean start, Tossy? Is that what you want me to be? A clean start, the next thing. The only thing. I’ll make you realize that you are Rosalind, and I’m Amory. But I won’t make the bull-headed mistake of that egotistical youth: I won’t disappoint you. I’ll fight for you, work hard for you, I’ll care for you endlessly. There will be no moving on from you, from me, from us. We’re it, Tossy. I can feel it._

_Even beyond the shrouded mystery that you are, the living, breathing question mark that is you. I can feel it. I’m not blindsided, I can see it coming for me this time. This will be it, for me._

_I type my response, ecstatic, but so soothed and confident, nothing short of death could convince me we aren’t meant to be._

**“Her philosophy is carpe diem for herself and laissez faire for others.”**

**On the vein of seizing the day like you…yes. I am in fact free. And open to anything you have in mind. Where do you want to meet?**

_Jesus. I’m practically vibrating. Am I nervous? Excited? I can’t tell._

_You walk back to your seat, blowing on your tea, paying more attention to it than is warranted. You left your phone, face-down, which tells me you’re anxious about my response, possibly dreading it. Are you insecure? You don’t seem so, based on our few encounters at the bookstore._

_You pick up your phone, apprehension clear as day on your face, teeth in your lip again. A nervous habit. You read my message, eyes devouring my words, and then back up. Read them **again** , and you smile in unabashed relief at your screen, at my response. I’ve made you smile, washed away the tension in your shoulders holding them stiff like concrete. I’d assuage more of your anxieties away if you told me of them. _

_You text me back, and I have to wait to reply even though I’m dying to read more from you._

_Now you drink your tea without a crease of discomfort between your eyebrows, sit a little more at ease in that armless chair, and take the time to look outside, watch passerby. I take my leave, drawing no attention. The bookbag I put my laptop in aids the ruse that I could be a student, trying to outrun deadlines and essays with the help of caffeine and SparkNotes._

_I get on the next block before I have my phone in hand, open to my messages. I can't read your words fast enough._

**How about in front of your store? 5:30 sound good? I can pick you up.**

_That’s a nice surprise. You have a car. And you’ve picked somewhere familiar. The store, where we’ve connected, where we began our story so sweetly. You don’t tell me what the dress code is, where we’re going…You really are seizing the day, taking me along with you. I told you I was open for anything, and you’re taking me at my word, because you know I’m good for it. My word._

_You are full of surprises. Keep me guessing. I type out my response, smile broad and carefree._

**Sounds great. I can’t wait. I’m sure I’ll enjoy whatever you have in mind.**

_I hope you continue to astound me. You’re a walking mystery, Tossy. And I’m looking forward to unraveling you._

**:)**

_Cute. You’re looking forward too. The first date is always nerve inducing, insecurities creep out like rodents in the mid-night hours after a family has cleaned the table of a large meal. But I have a feeling we’ll be fine. There’s more than a spark between us, Tossy. It’s already a flame. Small, I’ll admit that, but undeniably more formidable than a spark and I’ve got little to no doubts that this date will go off without a hitch._

_I’m assuming that I don’t need to dress any specific way, given that you’ve set the time just after I close up shop._

_Tomorrow can’t come soon enough._


	4. Once More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How fortuitous is the week you're having, it feels like you've come upon a turning point in your life. And while it makes you nervous, it also fills you with excitement. Joe understands and matches your emotions. He's anxious to progress the story between the two of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaaaa...Sorry. I've just been in some kind of funk, and haven't felt inspiration for stories that desperately need my attention. Regardless, hope you enjoy.

Today looms. Looms like a bird of prey, hovering over you menacingly, bathing you in shadow. But carpe diem, right? He seems genuinely interested, not pushy, he’s got some depth to him, which is a nice change.

But…you can’t help your nerves. You’re thinking ahead, to tonight, it’s all you can think about, which shortens your responses and communication skills down to hums and one syllable sounds. Not that Silver notices. She hasn’t stopped a single moment to ask for an invested opinion from you. Which, honestly, is fine because you have no expert opinion when it comes to dresses, or rhinestone earrings- and Jesus -don’t bother asking about heels.

Silver thrives off the sound of her own voice, kudos to her because she’s complete on her own, but that just means you have to be subjected to the torture of listening to her never-ending list of woes. Imagined, of course.

She stops outside a store, stares in the windows, her skinny frame reflected back at her like a murky doppelganger. Her sunglasses take up half her face because they’re designer which means more is _more_ , and she could use a little more to her physique.

Silver seems, to a degree, to recognize your distaste for this little traipse through New York, and she gives you the smallest mercy of not trying to dress you up. Thank God. You might actually punch her through her obtuse lenses.

“So,” she says, and a silence falls after that one syllable with something like promise.

Is she actually taking a breath of air? It’s insane that she hasn’t passed out from talking non-stop.

“You seem a little distracted,” She continues, touching up her lipstick in the shop window. But her lipstick is perfect and she isn’t the least bit subtle.

“Do I?” You shoot back, waiting for her abrasive follow-up, bow pulled taut, arrow aimed, let it fly.

“That bookstore. Something been catching your eye?” Alright. That’s a little more tact from her than you’re used to, but still ridiculously transparent.

“What, you stalking me?” You snort, and continue on down the sidewalk, prompting her to follow. And she will because she needs attention to live, attention and money.

“Guilty,” she snips, unimpressed, smoothing some loose hair behind her ear. The earrings in her lobes sparkle, flash in the sunlight, _Look at me!_ “You’re a creature of habit, T. Is this a new habit?”

You roll your eyes and stop, lean back into a parking meter, the cold metal cutting through your jacket. “Jesus, Silver. Just ask.”

Her rose red lips spread devilishly. “That clerk. The skinny one.”

You toy. “Still not a question.”

She pouts theatrically, adjusts her sunglasses, “He catch your eye?” She asks you, tone piquing, going loose and pitchy with the prospect of girly gossip. Ridiculous, because she knows you don’t do her brand of girl-bonding.

You nod. “And my number.” You start on again, not waiting for her response. There’s a shop that might snatch her attention and you don’t have the time for that, you need to tie up this pointless sashay around town and get some work done.

“My god.” She exclaims, hot on your tail, her heels clicking sharply.

She’ll want-

“Details.” She demands, linking her arm through yours, all simpatico and cheery.

You huff at her. “There aren’t any. We haven’t even been on a date, we’ve barely talked.”

_We’ve barely talked but I’m already hooked. And out of my head with worry about our upcoming date. What if what I have planned is too far out of left field? What if I scare him off? I mean, it’s a power switch: me making the plans, picking him up, holding the details hostage. He seemed okay, but what if he really isn’t?_

She hums in an uncommitted reply, reading a text on her cellphone.

_Thank God. Please tell me the barbie squad is trying to get you to tag along on a bar crawl through the diamond heights of New York._

She drops her phone into her purse, and looks at you with a sad lilt to her mouth. “Honey. You move so slow- live a little.” An idea sparks her eyes to life, “Come with me, the girls just hit me up for a night out. It’ll be fun!”

_She knows I hate her other friends. This is just a pale attempt, an excuse to cut this short and I couldn’t be more thrilled to turn her down. She knows that too._

You make a point to hesitate, to elaborate, before you grimace. “Uh, not really my scene, Silver. But you have fun.”

Another faux pas pout, seemingly disappointed. She sighs, “Suit yourself. But I want to know everything about this guy.” She drops a kiss to your cheek and struts down the sidewalk, hips swaying and drawing every man’s gaze within a fifty-foot radius.

You wipe a hand across your cheek. Needlessly. That designer lipstick could make it through a nuclear war. You watch her disappear around a corner, cellphone to her ear, manicured hand gesturing as she talks. You sigh heavily.

Time for a tea.

The shop is near-empty, which is nice. You could use the quiet after spending a morning with Silver. The barista, a blond with dark bags under his eyes, smiles when he sees you. Steve. Steve is nice, boyish, big aspirations. New York hasn’t beaten him to a bloody pulp yet, and it’s simultaneously heart-warming and pity inducing.

Same small table, same view, but comforting. While Steve steams your water, you call Alistair. It rings a grand total of twice before he picks up.

“Hey, what’s up?” Voice is loud, you can catch all the timber in it, the deep bass of his vocal chords. Usually only that deep when his chin is tucked and he’s got the phone between his cheek and shoulder. Taking pictures.

“You’ve got those photos ready for me, right?” You swipe breadcrumbs off your table, frown at fingerprints on the window.

“Sure do. Organized and filed. Ready to be edited. Also got a blank canvas waiting for you at the apartment,” _Click, click, pause. Click-click._

You were right. He’s taking pictures. “Yeah. Probably won’t get to the canvas tonight,” It’s silent on his end, no picture taking as he waits for you to elaborate. “I have a date.”

And now the silence has a palpable flavor.

“A date.” Not so loud now. He’s put down his camera and is holding his phone, invested in the conversation. “With bookstore guy?” _God, are you really that see-through?_ “Are you sure, Toss?” Concern, uncertainty.

You clear your throat, sigh tightly. “I mean, it could be good. Good for me. To move on, you know? Get passed it.”

 “Yeah, yeah. You think you’re ready?” Patience, patience and worry, and familial protectiveness. Somewhere in there, there’s hope too. Hope that you are ready, hope that this could be good for you.

“I guess we’ll find out.” You reply- attention fractioned as Steve calls out your name. “He’s nice, you know? Polite, charming. Actually reads books.” That’s the clincher there, the bookish quality. You smile at the barista.

_Click, click. Click._ “Well, I suppose if things go slightly south, you do know how to throw a punch.”

You smile, blow on your tea. “Damn right, I do.”

“You bringing out the big guns?” He asks you, a hint of a grin in his voice and you can’t stop the one that steals across your own lips.

“Maybe.” Maybe as in yes. He knows.

He chuckles- _Click. Pause, click-click-click._ “It’s good. It’ll be good.” He says, attempting to alleviate his doubts and your anxiety. “I gotta go, Toss. You call me-”

You roll your eyes fondly, “If I need anything. I know.”

“Brat,” He retorts good naturedly. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” You say goodbye, and lay your phone on the table as you plan out your day. The tea helps relax you to a degree, helps to ease your running mind into a gallop. It’s been some time since you’ve been on a date, on a date with a decent guy.

Your phone chimes and you wonder who-

**Joe: I need an informed opinion.**

You smile, humor spiking the corners of your lips until your mouth is reminiscent of a crescent.

**On?**

**Joe: What author gets voted off the island, and shipped to the discount shelf. And before you ask, no. Not Fitzgerald.**

You chuckle into the collar of your jacket.

**I do read works by other authors, you know? But who are the candidates?**

**Joe: No, no, I’m sure you do. You’ve got good taste- but, the contestants: We’ve got Dan Brown. Or, some young adult author: Cassandra Clare.**

_That’s not even a decision needs a second opinion, Joe. You know your books_ , you think with a wry smile. _Do you just want to see if I know my books?_

**Jesus. Dan Brown- don’t even put it on the discount shelf. Just burn it.**

**Joe: XD Do you even know who the other author is?**

**Nooope. But it doesn’t matter.**

Three little ellipses roll, and blink as he measures his response. Stop…start up again, and you smile.

**Joe: Normally, I’d be all for a Dan Brown book burning, but…we did spend money on them. So…**

He sends you a picture of the books in question, sitting on the discount shelf all by their lonesome, with a simple caption _Can’t always get what you want. Which in this case is to char-grill these things._

You glance at your phone’s time…contemplate your plan, the zaniness of it, and grin like a madwoman.

**Don’t let anyone buy those. I’ll be there in ten.**

And with that your phone goes back into your pocket, ignoring the chiming, most likely Joe. You set off at a brisk pace, hands in your jacket pockets, feeling lighter than usual, hopeful.

 

_You’re coming here. I can imagine it’s to buy the books. But maybe I’m just a little hopeful that the ulterior motive is to see me and the books are a good excuse._ He rereads your short conversation, grinning at the comfort of it, the way you picked up on his humor, shared his opinion, your easy-going attitude.

He has a really good feeling about you. And it only gets stronger after every interaction he has with you.

He still has a couple hours until he has to close up shop, and knows those hours are going to drag on. He knows they will. And these next ten minutes. He’s counting every second, every second is a lifetime that he spends musing about you.

The shop is slow, the day has been slow, his life has slowed down to snail-like proportions but you’re bringing some of the excitement back, some of the whimsical qualities he’s forgotten life can deliver. He busies himself, as much as he can, dusting down bookshelves, wiping coffee stains off of end tables. He’ll never get over how inconsiderate people are.

He restrains himself from glancing at the door every time it opens, he can’t appear that interested, that devoted/desperate. Ethan’s started to wonder, picked up two, and two, and has taken the time adding them together, but Joe knows it won’t be long before Ethan asks about you.

The store is just beginning to smell like orange peel when you walk in, he’s wiping down the front counter, and doesn’t bother looking up when he says, “Welcome to Mooney’s.” But when you walk up to the counter he recognizes the sound of your boots, the leather of your jacket crinkling, the zippers twinkling merrily, and he catches a whiff of your perfume.

And then he looks up, slightly dirty cloth hanging from his hand like he’s forgotten what he’s doing with it. He beams. “Welcome _back_ to Mooney’s.” He corrects himself, and leans into the counter this time, makes sure there’s no room to doubt his attraction. _If there wasn’t a counter between us…_

You smile up at him, a cheeky grin adorning your mouth, an impish gleam in your eye. You don’t say anything.

And you don’t have to. “Might I interest you in our discount shelf. Just added some books to it.”

You appear pleasantly surprised. “Really? Don’t suppose Dan Brown has made his way over there?”

_Christ’s sake. I’m tempted to close shop right now,_ He leaves the check-out, walks you over, and leans a forearm into the edge of the shelf. “Dan Brown has more or less rented out the shelf.” And he isn’t joking, there’s a nice pile of his works taking the long stretch of the top.

Your grin prompts him to think of the Cheshire Cat, and he wonders, haltingly, who that makes him?

“I’ll take them.” You say, far more pleased than he thinks the situation calls for, inside joke included, but he doesn’t judge. Carries them to check-out and rings them all up, sneaking glances at the devilish spark in your eyes. He’d like to familiarize himself with that spark.

“Thank you for your charitable purchase, madam,” he finally says when he has them all bagged.

You wink. “No thanks needed. I’m going to thoroughly enjoy these books.”

_Are you? You have something in mind, and I’m dying to know what it is, but I have to stay here, and wait._

“Joe? What are you still doing here?” Ethan stops at the end of an aisle, a stack of books in his hands. He looks genuinely confused, and Joe’s confused about _his_ confusion.

Joe smiles benevolently. “I’m closing, Ethan.” _I am. Unfortunately_.

Ethan wrinkles his brow, it jolts his glasses down his nose. “No, I told you I could close tonight, remember?”

No, Joe doesn’t. Probably because Ethan is lying out his ass. But Ethan takes a swift glance at you, meets Joe’s eyes, and he understands. Ethan is, not exceptional, but occasionally he can be a good wingman. Like, right now. He’s a good wingman.

Joe’s face goes slack with remembrance. “Oh, you know- I forgot. Slipped my mind.”

_Oh? So, he’s free now?_ You glance down at your bag of books. Two ways this could go: Start the date now and spend the rest of the day together, foregoing your work. Or, meet up here at the aforementioned time and stick to the plan.

You look up and meet his deep brown eyes, and feel your resolve shatter. “If you’re fine with starting a little earlier than planned, I can swing back in 20…”

He smiles warmly, holds your nervous but excited gaze and says, “More than fine.”

You roll your lips into your mouth, still smiling and nod, “Okay. See you soon.” You can feel his eyes on your back as you leave and it’s like fire racing up your spine, but it gives you goosebumps and makes your blood buzz. You’ve never felt such strong attraction from someone, or _for_ someone. The way he makes you feel, the things he causes your body to do. God, he could be like a drug.

Joe sighs as the door closes behind you, unbeknownst that Ethan is still nearby.

“She’s different.”

Joe’s head whips on his shoulders to look at Ethan. “…yeah. She is.”

The larger man smiles, “A good different.” He slips back into the stacks and Joe nods, mostly to himself at this point.

_You are different. Different from Beck, and from Candace which gives me hope. That’s not to say I’ve forgotten what a mystery you are, because I haven’t. I won’t let myself fall in deep without learning all there is to know about you, Tossy. Alluring and magnetic as you are. I’ve been hurt one too many times by secrets. We can’t have any of those between us._

_But, this is only our first date. And I’m patient. I’m very patient, able to forgive anything._

He takes off his apron and folds it, tucks into the cubby of the check-out counter and heads to the bathroom to straighten up as much as he can before you come back.

_Today is going to be perfect._

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck. I'd love to take this idea and run with it. But I won't. I'll leave it hauntingly open. Those that have watched the show will hopefully feel well-founded dread for the reader. Poor girl is in for it. Feel I should put a disclaimer: Not condoning Joe's character at all. He's fucked up, crazy. Just wanted that out there.


End file.
